


Curveball

by glacis



Category: Highlander: The Series, The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:59:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life throws Jim and Blair a curveball.  Duncan and Methos help them deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curveball

Curveball, a Sentinel/Highlander crossover.  For Shanny, and thank you for the letters on behalf of our Sentinel!

 

His world ended in silence. Blue lips, water streaming from sopping ringlets of dark brown hair, lashes laying still over unnaturally pale cheeks. A hand, curled against the grass, tinges of blue in the moons of the nails striking like neon hammers against his enhanced sight.

Not that enhanced senses were any good to a Sentinel who had lost his vision. Lost his light. Lost the heartbeat that led him through confusion to calm. And it was his own damned fault.

He'd killed Blair as surely as if he really had put that arrow through his heart. Turned from him, thrust him away, denied the single clarion call of duty that he should have placed first above all others. Instead of being the Blessed Protector he was meant to be, he'd become a traitor to his own heart. In response, it should have been as silent as the stillness pressing against his ear drums. Should have been missing as surely as any sign of life was missing from Blair Sandburg. He idly wondered how calm he could fake being, if he could ditch Simon long enough to get back to the loft, or god, no, not there. Someplace else. Someplace still, and silent, where he could eat his gun and get past this blank wall of silence that was crushing him out of existence. He stared into the dark eyes of his superior officer and friend, noting the moisture in that unusually kind gaze. Mourn for him, Simon. Mourn for us both.

Mourn for all of us.

Mourn for the silence.

The paramedics were wheeling the body -- his body -- Blair's body -- toward the back of the ambulance. No need to hurry, now. No precious spark of life to tend, no rush to trauma needed. In the silence, Jim smelled a collection of strange scents from Blair's body, concentrating so completely on what he could have of his Guide that everything else fell away. Chlorine, salt, minerals, faint hint of urine, still trapped in the heavy denim, oils from his skin, nearly washed away, herbal scent of his hair, almost completely diluted. So little of the scent he'd filled his head with every day before he sent his partner away.

To die.

The gurney hit a small pothole in the grass, and lurched to one side. He moved instinctively, steadying it with one shaking hand, then freezing. The strength of his grip stopped the forward movement and the lead paramedic looked askance at him.

"Detective? Captain Banks, your detective …"

He didn't hear it. He'd heard something else. Under the sheet. Where there was no life. No heartbeat.

A breath.

Ragged, painful, shallow, nearly nonexistent. But he'd heard it.

"Jim? Come on, Jim, move away, let them do their job." A mosquito in his ear. Bass drumming, irritating him. Distracting him from his primary mission. He waved it away.

There it was again. Deeper this time. A jerk, minute but unmistakable, in the previously inert form under the cloth. Oh my god. He couldn't breathe, didn't need to. Couldn't move if his life had depended on it.

The silence was broken by a heartbeat. Irregular, too fast, panicked, then slowing into regular rhythm. Two contractions of the atria, a rush of blood, ventricles kicking in, arterial blood rushing through. A harsh syncopation between heart and lungs smoothing into perfect rhythm, pulse settling, lungs drawing cleanly. Then a cough.

Jim shook off Simon's restraining hand and ripped the cloth off Blair's body just in time to catch his partner as the young man curled over the side of the gurney and emptied a few quarts of pond water all over the grass, a paramedic, and Ryf. They were so shocked they stood there and let it happen. Jim was too busy holding Blair's head to worry about it.

All around him he was vaguely aware of exclamations of shock and wonder. It was amazingly noisy, and he could feel his head start to pound. So he did what he always did when the real world became too great a pain to endure. He reached out with every sense toward his Guide.

A shock jolted through him, warming him, centering him. It was the same small jolt he'd felt from the first time he'd touched Sandburg, throwing him up against the wall in his office that first day. But immensely stronger. He understood that it was a warning, and a gift. He had nearly thrown everything away.

Not this time. Second chances came rarely if at all. He wasn't going to fuck it up again.

 

It had been a horrible week. First, Alex Barnes tried to kill everybody in her path, then Jim completely tossed him out on his ass, and rubbed his face in the fact that he was totally unnecessary in his life. No home, no dissertation, no future. No Sentinel. No shaman. Then the woman he'd tried so hard to help came back to haunt him. Not that he'd put up too hard a fight. What was there to fight for, anymore, anyway? No Jim.

She'd wanted to kidnap him, but that far he couldn't go. He'd told her to do her damnedest but he wasn't going to betray his friends (man, what a cop out. Like he hadn't already) and go with her. She'd looked only a little regretful, before whacking him across the back of the head with her gun. Or a brick. It was hard to tell the difference. The last thought he'd had as he went face first into the fountain was that it was really gonna taste like shit, and geez, but that hurt.

He'd been right on both counts. Not that he'd been awake long enough to appreciate either.

Blair looked around the temple. At least, it looked like a temple. He wasn't quite sure where he was, although it resembled an Olmec temple he'd seen in southwestern Mexico. But Copalillo had been in ruins. This was as far from antiquity as he was. Or as he usually was. Just at the moment, he wouldn't have taken even odds on anything.

Especially when the wolf sat down next to him, growled at him, and asked him what the hell he was doing here already.

He stared at the uncannily blue, oddly intelligent, and highly impatient eyes of the canine. For a moment, the world shifted, and he was staring into a mirror. Then it shifted again, causing his stomach to lurch right along with it. He squeezed his eyes shut. It didn't work. When he opened them again, the wolf was still sitting next to him. And if ever he had seen a pissed off look on a wolfish face, it was staring right at him.

"Uhm," he began intelligently. The wolf snorted.

"I asked, what the hell are you doing here already?" A cold muzzle flicked sideways against his neck. "Not your time. Your sentinel needs you. What are you doing here?"

His foggy brain snapped on to the one piece of information that made any sense whatsoever, coming from an overgrown wild dog who could talk without moving his mouth. "What do you mean, my sentinel needs me? That is so cold, man. He tossed me out on my ass, boxed up all my stuff, threw me out of his life-"

"Cry me a river, dude." Blair could feel his jaw drop. This, from a _wolf_? Where did he get off?

"Same place you do, kid," the wolf answered the thought. "Which brings us back to the question. Try to focus. I know it's tough for you, but try. We haven't got a lot of time. Now. Why are you here? When your Sentinel needs you?"

His mouth was still hanging open but his tongue was on strike. He took a deep breath, heard a weird gurgle from somewhere around his belly button, and looked down at himself. He was soaking wet.

"Oh. Okay, that's cool, that makes more sense."

Blair stopped staring at his sopping clothes and stared back at the wolf. "Maybe to somebody, man, but that somebody would not be me."

"Think about it. Shaman." The wolf grinned at him. He stared back at it. His own mouth stretched into an unwilling smile.

"So, I'm, like, dead. Right?" An encouraging nod from the wolf. "But not completely. Bizarre. Kind of like not being completely pregnant."

"Without the mood swings." The wolfish blue eyes were definitely laughing at him, now.

"So, I'm not completely dead, there's no Billy Crystal running around with a chocolate covered pill and bellows, so I'm not stuck in a movie somewhere, and despite all appearances to the contrary, including all my stuff boxed in storage, me sleeping in my office, and Jim ripping me a new asshole in front of Simon, God and everybody, my Sentinel needs me. Right so far?" He couldn't stamp all the sarcasm out of his recital, but he did keep his smile.

The wolf nodded. "On the nose," wrinkling the snout in question.

"So, I'm not totally clueless, here. One Sentinel tries to trash me, the other one disses me big time, but part of the job description of Shaman is to take the shit and keep on coming. When I don't, I end up not completely dead, talking to cryptic wolves and drowning in my own clothes. What does this teach me?" he kept going, rhetorically, since the wolf had sunk onto its haunches and was sitting there watching him work it out. Needing to move, he got up and started to pace, ignoring the sound of his shoes squelching as he walked.

"It teaches me that I need the Sentinel as much as he needs me, even if he does get too frightened and closed off and fucking thick headed to figure it out." From the shadows, he heard something that sounded like a growl of agreement, but when he looked, all he saw was blackness. He shrugged it off and kept walking, hands flying as he sketched the argument in the air. "It teaches me that turning away won't work, that ignoring it won't work, that I have to keep in there, keep hammering, learn from it, make damned sure _he_ learns from it, and move on. 'Cause until I do I'm stuck. He's stuck. We're stuck." He stopped abruptly and glared at the wolf, who was nodding approvingly. "And I really need to throw up now."

He took two raspy breaths, bent over, and lost half the pond. When he finally got his breath back, he realized three things simultaneously. The wolf was gone, he was cold, wet, miserable and sore, and Jim was hovering over him looking damned glad to see him.

Maybe there was something to this Shaman stuff he hadn't seen before. Time to hit the books. After he'd slept for about a week.

 

"Take it easy, there, Chief," Jim soothed Blair, seeing the wide eyed look the miraculously resurrected man was giving him. "It's going to be okay."

Then the paramedics were cutting in on him, shifting him out of the way, taking pulse and poking and prodding … all the things Jim could tell, at a glance and with both ears blissfully wide open, were totally unnecessary. Sandburg was fine.

"It's a ruddy miracle," Connor said softly beside him. He smiled at her.

"I don't believe this," Brown whispered to Ryf, who was staring down at the remains of a four hundred dollar suit and seemed unsure whether to celebrate Blair's return to life or mourn the death of his sartorial perfection. Jim smiled at them, too.

"Are you okay? Is Sandburg okay? What the hell is going on here?!" Simon was mangling his unlit cigar, trying to look every direction at once, eyes nearly starting out of his head. Jim gave him an especially warm smile.

"It's gonna be okay, sir. He's fine." Soft reassurance, total assurance. All was right with the world again. Now he just had to get his Guide home and … shit. Unpack boxes. He swallowed his smile. Then he squared his shoulders. First things first, and restraining the determined-to-leave-the-ambulance Sandburg was a definite priority. "Chief? Hold up there."

"I'm fine, Jim," his partner answered, looking a hell of a lot better than he had, even if his voice was a little raspy. "I just want to go home." He stopped, and huge, desolate eyes stared up at Jim. For a moment, he almost considered handing Sandburg his gun and telling him to shoot him. It would hurt less.

"Yes, you will go home, with me," get that straight right off the bat. "But you were technically dead, Chief-"

"Tell me something I don't know, big guy," the drowned rat posing as his partner grumbled. Jim soldiered on.

"So you really need to get checked out."

"I feel fine!" Yeah, a definite whine. The kid was back!

"Please?" He deliberately widened his eyes and stared pleadingly down at Sandburg. Puppy dog eyes worked so well on him, maybe they'd work on Blair. "Just to be on the safe side. Make sure you're okay." Carefully not phrasing at as order. Reining in all the instincts that were raging at him to wrap the kid up in cotton wool and keep him on a shelf someplace quiet in a vault somewhere behind twelve inch thick concrete walls.

Sandburg hesitated, and Jim turned up the plea another notch. It must have worked, because with a warding motion of his hands his partner caved in. Jim beamed at him. "Yeah, okay, whatever, man, just get me out of these damned clothes before I catch pneumonia."

The gurney was lifted into the ambulance, the paramedic climbed in with it, and Jim practically heeled his shoes making sure he didn't get left behind. The medic opened his mouth, saw six foot two of pure steel determination, and closed it again. Smart guy.

The ride to the hospital was mercifully brief, since they were going to the University medical center and it was less than a mile away. Throughout the ride, Jim kept one hand in contact with Blair at all times. He could literally feel the electricity swirling around his Guide's warming body, and it buzzed pleasantly along his skin. It was addictive. Life, connection, heat, energy … Jim needed it worse than oxygen. It seemed to calm Blair, as well, and the disgruntled mutterings under his breath gradually died down.

Then into the light and sterile brightness of a stall in emergency, the bustle and business of doctors coming in, shining lights in various cavities of Blair's body, thumping here, listening there. Probing this bit with a finger, that bit with a scope. There was a great deal of scratching heads, and a few disappointed med students, because not one of the four emergency room doctors who checked him out from scalp to soles could find a single thing wrong with him.

An hour into the fuss, barely able to see a patch of sable frizz that was the top of his friend's head over the gaggle of medical personnel oohing and aahing over him, he'd escaped to Blair's office and grabbed a spare set of sweats. He's felt the after effects of Barnes' presence here, and had to clench his jaw until his teeth ached to keep from zoning on pure unadulterated rage. Simon had put the word out on her, APB, all units alert, if there was so much as a wiggle in the woodwork they'd find her. Jim knew they wouldn't. The itch between his shoulder blades was gone. She might be back, she might not, he might hunt her down and tear her into small bloody chunks, but for the moment at least, she was nowhere in the area.

He couldn't help but be relieved, as much as he wanted to kill the bitch. Blair needed him right now, and his partner was one hell of a lot more important than one rogue Sentinel. He knew that, now. If he'd known it a week before, then all this shit wouldn't have happened. He would have _been_ there for his Guide. Not left him alone and fair prey. Not ended up getting him killed.

The ache was back between his eyes, matching that in his jaw. As he turned toward the door, he'd seen the sleeping bag and back pack Sandburg had been using as a makeshift bed. An ache in his gut joined the rest of his pain, and he shook his head, hard, once. No more. Never again. It had very nearly left him alone and eating his gun. It was _never_ going to happen _again_.

He'd made it back to the hospital at a near run, the need to be next to his partner pushing him on. When he'd gotten back to the cubicle there were three med students, two nurses, an aide and a doctor still clustered around him. For an instant he thought he hadn't been missed. Then one blue eye peeked out between two white-coated backs, tracking him into the room. He stopped still, found himself grinning like an idiot, and held up the sweats for approval. The eye sparkled, his ears picked up a near-silent 'thanks, man', then the gap closed. He slumped against the wall and waited patiently for the medical community to give him back his Guide.

Three and a half hours later, Jim was finally allowed to take him home. Once they made it to the truck, Jim found himself tongue-tied. Usually it wasn't noticeable, but Blair wasn't too talkative either. After a good ten minutes of silence, Jim opened his mouth.

"When we get home, Jim," Sandburg beat him to the punch.

He nodded. He had no problem at all putting it off. When they reached the loft, he pulled the keys out and went around to let Blair out, thinking the younger man might be tired from his horrible day. No such luck.

Blair was already out, staring up at the loft, bouncing very slightly on the balls of his feet. To Jim, it looked eerily as if the slightest sound might spook him, send him running, never to come back. The thought made his skin crawl, and he reached out instinctively to put one hand on Blair's shoulder. The bouncing stilled, and he found himself looking down into a serious, sad, and oddly determined face.

"Am I home, Jim? Do I get to unpack the boxes, or will they just be put in another closet, to be taken out the next time you want me out of your life? I have to know where I'm standing, man. And I have to know now, before I go back in there. It's important to me."

Jim could see that. He took a deep breath, planning to tell the kid that he could stay as long as he wanted, that the loft would be his home for as long as he needed to be there. "I will never want you out of my life, Blair. I won't let you go." He blinked. That hadn't been what he'd been expecting to say at all. But from the clearing of that dark expression staring up at him, it must have been the right thing.

Blair nodded and waved toward the door. "No keys, man. Lead the way."

Jim nodded back, unsure of what to say to ease the emptiness he knew they'd find. Without thought, he reached down and gently hooked his hand around Blair's wrist. That felt right. So he held it all the way up the elevator. And Blair never said a word, just bounced quietly at his side. That felt right, too.

When he swung the door open, it echoed. He winced, and shrugged awkwardly. "Uhm, my stuff's down in storage with your stuff, Chief. We can bring it up and unpack together. If you want." He tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. He failed.

Blair swung around and grinned at him. "Sounds like a plan to me, big guy. You haul, I'll cook."

Jim found himself nodding agreement, halfway out the door to do Sandburg's bidding before he stopped and swung around. Blair was staring into an empty refrigerator.

"Uhm, well, Chief," he started. His partner gave him a startled look, then repeated his foraging movement in the cupboards. They were all empty as well. "Wasn't very hungry lately." He could feel himself blushing. Blair nodded slowly.

"Yeah, so I see. Phone still work?" Jim nodded. "Cool. I'll call for Thai, you haul." Jim's mouth opened, then shut as Blair picked up the phone and started to dial. For some weird reason, this felt right, too. So he turned, closed the door carefully, and headed to the basement to starting bringing up boxes. His face felt odd, strained, and he ran a hand over his jaw, not particularly surprised to find that he was grinning like an idiot. His best friend was alive, home where he belonged, and things were going to be okay. For the first time in weeks, his universe was in order, and everything just felt … right.

 

It had taken a couple months, but things eventually had gotten back on an even keel. There were still things to thrash out, and they had a few spectacular arguments, but no mention was ever made of splitting up again. Jim continued to feel compelled to touch, even more than before Blair's accident. No one seemed to even notice. The clinical death and spontaneous resuscitation made the local papers and television news shows, only to be quickly replaced by the latest political sex scandal and pompous ballast from the opposition. The winter semester started, the Christmas crime rush ended. The loft was gradually put back in order, and the resulting blend of styles and mementos reflected the new closeness of the partnership. Everything was going surprisingly well.

Of course it couldn't last.

The first indication they had that something was radically wrong was when Jim came out one soggy gray day to pick Blair up for lunch before heading out to the station. New students wandered between the buildings, and new faculty orientation was taking a small flock of professors toward the social sciences library. Jim nearly ran over the whole pack of them. Coming around the corner, a careful seven miles an hour, he was hit with a headache that made the very word a mockery. It felt like someone had taken a chainsaw to the crown of his head, lopped off the top of his skull, and dropped napalm on his brain, then sewn his scalp shut. His vision went off-line, his hands jerked and his foot reflexively stomped down on the brake, sending the truck slewing sideways. Academics scattered like flies in front of the half ton pickup bearing down on them.

When it came to a stop, Jim wasn't aware of anything. His head was tucked down under his arms, and he was curled as far into a fetal position as a man over six foot could get when hampered by a steering wheel at his midriff. People swarmed around, staring in the windows, calling out excitedly to see if he was all right, if everyone was safe, if anyone had been squashed like a bug under the truck tires … thankfully before he could be reduced to whimpering mush, the voice of reason cut through the cacophony in his ears.

"JIM? Jim, man, are you okay? What happened? Oh, shit, this sucks. Okay, everything's okay." A change in tone, higher, not directed at him. "Nobody got hurt, right? Cool, then go ahead, go on, I got it, everything's okay." Then those hands were on his neck, on his shoulder, patting his face, and that lifeline of a voice was back with him. "Come on back to me, big guy, it's okay, can you hear me? Come on out of it, Jim. It's okay, but you've got to come back to me, Jim. Dial it down. Reach in and take hold of that dial, Jim, and take it down a notch. Or ten. Come out of it. Jim, can you hear me? Jim?"

He moved then, uncurling just enough to reach out and grab hold for dear life. The electricity washed over him, soothing him, warming him, cutting out the pain. He buried his face in fragrant, warm skin, hid his eyes under that fall of soft hair, and shook. It felt like it took forever before the pain in his head subsided.

When he could see again, he realized that he was wrapped around Blair like an octopus in the front seat of his truck, with Blair patting him and soothing him and people walking all around them like there was nothing the least little bit weird about two grown men cuddling in the front seat of a pickup in the middle of the afternoon. Of course, this was a university. Maybe there wasn't.

"Sorry about that, Chief." If his head was settled down he might have felt embarrassed. As it was, it all felt too right to even let go.

"Jim!" A world of relief in that wonderful voice. "You okay, man? Wow, that was wild. What happened? Do you remember? What triggered the zone?"

He managed to get a single finger up and cover the rapidly moving lips with it. Sandburg went completely still and stared attentively at him. "Wasn't a zone, Chief." The lips moved, and he tapped them lightly. They stilled obligingly. He managed to insert another inch of space between them, but didn't want to let go any further than that. So he held on, not quite as tightly, and explained the best he could about the sensory attack.

Blair coaxed him out of the driver's seat, not difficult to do when he was still shaking so hard he could barely move. They went to Wonderburger, a concession to his need for greasy comfort food, and his Guide played twenty questions trying to figure out what had sparked the sudden flare. At closer to two hundred questions, he had to call a halt.

"We've got to get back to the precinct, Chief. There's a hot one on my desk, and the Captain wants you in on it. Thinks it might be a ritual thing. Anyway, my head's fine now," a slight exaggeration, but at least he could move without it feeling like a watermelon that had just been hit by an Uzi. "And we really got to get back to work."

Sandburg was grumpy, not wanting to let it go until he'd pinned down a cause, but bowed before the urgency of Jim's request. Since the whole drowning incident, Jim had been reticent about ordering him to do anything. There were times when he had to bite his tongue to stop himself, but he didn't want to fall back into the habits that had nearly cost Blair his life once already. Happily, his partner was being unusually accommodating, almost as if he knew what sort of effort Jim was putting into making things work. Twenty minutes later they were hunched over the files, cross-referencing the databases on the computer, and trying to figure out what was going on in the latest weirdness to hit Cascade's shores.

"Ugh. Gruesome."

Jim couldn't help but agree with Sandburg's judgement. Three bodies, all found within a five mile radius over the course of a two week period. All in perfect health, with one major exception. No heads. The heads were separated from the bodies by some sort of smooth bladed sharp instrument. No witnesses, since they were not only found in deserted areas of the waterfront where casual observers were few and far between, but also because the murders happened on the nights of some of the worst thunderstorms Cascade had seen all winter. Jim was rapidly becoming frustrated with the lack of evidence.

"I want to go out to the scenes again, this time with you, Chief." He'd gone out to each, but the rain had washed away anything and everything that might have helped, including the blood from the corpses. He'd found lots of shattered glass, melted cables, and burn marks on the cement, but that had been about it. With his Guide beside him to anchor him, he hoped to go further, see what only Sentinel sight could catch. Blair nodded agreement.

"As long as the bodies are gone, man, I'm good to go." Jim grinned at him. One hand firmly planted on his young friend's shoulder, they headed out to the scene of the most recent murder.

Blair shivered as they stepped carefully into the rotted shell of a warehouse. He loved the docks when they were bustling with people and life, but this place reminded him much too much of his captivity in Lash's hands. He'd had nightmares for weeks after the psychotic killer had taken him, and his skin still crawled when he was in dark, dank places like this. He edged closer to Jim, almost in the cop's hip pocket. Ellison seemed to sense that he needed the reassurance, and leaned back into him. Blair absently hooked a finger in the back belt loop on Jim's jeans, and looked around.

"What do you see, Jim?" A quiet voice, partly to guide, partly due to the oppressive atmosphere. In contrast, his partner's voice was briskly normal.

"Broken light bulbs, dirt, oil, rat hair, more dirt, busted up beams, scorch marks on the pavement, more oil, more dirt-"

"Cute, big guy." He silently thanked Jim for his attempt to cheer him up with a small poke in the back. Jim grinned down at him over his shoulder. "Other than the obvious. What's the fun of being a walking forensics lab if you don't look past the surface?" He grinned back up, then felt it fade as he saw Jim's face go slack with concentration. Turning himself, shifting to keep hold of the belt loop while staying out of Jim's way, he followed as his partner walked to a wall of metal sheeting. It had partially melted, and Ellison reached out one fingertip and rested it lightly against the slag along the edge. Then his entire body went rigid, and both hands flew to his temples.

Blair caught him as he sagged, whispering urgently, "Jim? What's going on?" before the earth shifted beneath his feet.

He was there, and yet he wasn't. There was a translucent film over everything, and projected against the film was a forest. Deep, old forest, so many different shades of green, from mint to near-black, mossy wood fallen to shelter thin streams. A Native American man from one of the Southwest Tribes stared up at him, startled, then shimmered from existence. Evil eater. The words blazed across his mind but made no sense to him.

Through the hazy second scene, he could see his body wrapped as far around Jim's as he could reach, cradling the older man's head against his chest, arms wrapped protectively around his shoulders. There was danger there, past the immediate pain, past the odd reality shift he was caught up in, but he couldn't see what it was. Couldn't _sense_ what it was.

There was movement in the forest, and he glanced to the side to see a sleek black panther, trembling, wide eyed, bewildered and tense. Beside it was the wolf he recognized from his spirit journey during his drowning. The wolf stood still as a statue, eyes glassy, feet planted on each side of the panther curled at its feet. Its lips were drawn back in a snarl, but there was no enemy that he could see, and none the wolf could find, either, from the look of it.

His vision began to swim, lances of pain stabbing behind his eyes. As the forest began to shimmer out of existence, he saw the shadow of a huge bear behind the wolf. Its claws were extended, heading toward the scruff of the wolf's neck. He opened his mouth to cry warning, and crystal blue eyes in a black furred face stared up at him, pleading. He extended one hand toward the panther, needing to help, needing to protect, needing to warn … then the bear twisted sideways, looking behind him, and melted into the shadow of the trees. The panther closed its eyes, lying panting on the forest floor, and the wolf threw back its head and howled its frustrated pain to the trees.

With a wrench, the vision dissipated, and he realized he was screaming, now, not gently, not guiding, but screaming at Jim. For Jim. For help. Two dock workers had come running, and were bent over him, asking him if he was okay, what was wrong, what could they do. His voice abruptly stopped, and he stared at them.

"You already have." They didn't know what he meant, looking at him as if he was insane. He looked down at Jim, still curled in his arms, just now starting to come around. Perhaps he was. Then he looked the opposite direction, down the dark alley behind the warehouse, and knew he wasn't. Not quite yet.

 

It should have been a warning. The second one, hitting outside the precinct two days later and driving Jim nearly to his knees, where he certainly would have gone if Sandburg hadn't taken every bit of his weight on his shoulder, was an even stronger hint that something had to be done. But hard as Blair tried to get his stubborn Sentinel to talk about it, the more obtuse Ellison became. Tension built, and built, and built.

One Thursday night, it exploded.

"I know you hate the tests, man, but it's the only way we can find out what's-"

"Leave it, Sandburg," Jim growled. He knew he was being a pain in the ass, but these headaches _scared_ him, scared him as badly as when his senses had first gone haywire on him. His partner glared at him for a long moment, but Jim might as well have had eight foot bright red neon lights over his head flashing out I Don't Want To Talk About It. Damnit.

After a long, tense silence, Blair deliberately took his glasses off, folded them, stood up, walked over to the mantle, and laid them carefully down. Jim watched him, wondering what was going through that brilliant but quirky brain now. Solemnly, much as if he was carrying out some arcane ritual that no one else had ever heard of, Blair took a deep, centering breath. Picked up a sofa pillow. Stared at the weave for a long moment. Then crashed it down full force on top of Jim's head.

He sat there, stunned for a heartbeat, and got a face-full of pillow as a result. By the time it finally dawned on him that his frustrated Guide was beating him over the head with a pillow, his sense of humor finally crawled out from under the rock where it had been hiding for the past several weeks and woke up with a roar. He grabbed the other pillow and proceeded to pound the feathers out of Sandburg.

Or, at least, he tried.

Little shit was pretty damned fast on his feet.

The pillow fight quickly degenerated into Jim chasing Blair around the loft, up and down the stairs, all over the kitchen, and Blair popping Jim in the face, butt, back and stomach with lightning raids before jumping just out of reach of the avenging pillow. Realizing he was never going to get anywhere this way, Jim tossed the pillow in the corner, took a running dive, and pounced on his partner, bowling him over onto the couch.

It felt wonderfully freeing to roughhouse and play, in a way he never really had since he was a kid, and even then, only when his father was out of town. Rolling Blair underneath him, pressing his breathlessly laughing partner into the cushions, he tweaked Blair's pillow from the defensive position between them and proceeded to tickle every square inch of wriggling Guide that he could touch. And from where he was, blanketing the kid from head to toe, that pretty much meant everywhere.

Over the ribs, to the sensitive skin along the sides of his stomach, up into his armpits, down along his elbows, around to the small of his back, holding him down with one hand and tickle-attacking the back of his knee with the other hand, a prolonged tickle attack to which Sandburg had absolutely no defense. Jim took unashamedly unfair advantage of his Sentinel touch to map out every sensitive nerve ending and tickle it into submission, keeping a weather ear out for hitches in breathing that would indicate the limits had been reached. Not wanting Sandburg to actually barf on him, he would back off _just_ enough to take the edge off, and when the nerve endings had calmed to a slight twitch, start all over again.

By the time he had taken his revenge, Blair was a voiceless, mindless, writhing mass of twanging nerve endings undulating up and down under Jim like an endless wave. The surfer in him reveled in it, the Sentinel in him delighted in the pure unadulterated happiness of his Guide's flushed, sweaty face … and the man in him was utterly aroused by the scent and feel of the body pressed so intimately against him. The thought should have stopped him in his tracks, but like so much that had been new to him since he'd nearly lost his partner, this, too, simply felt right. So he went with it, pressing a little harder, lingering a little longer. Turning tickling into caressing. Shifting his weight to press more of himself against more of his Guide.

Blair must have felt the change in his attention, surely felt the heat of the erection pressing into his thigh, because the grin stretching his cheeks softened, and the brightness in his eyes darkened as his pupils contracted. His breathing caught, then deepened, and he thrust up more rhythmically, matching Jim's movements with his own. The flush on his neck deepened and flooded up into his face, and his tongue slipped out to wet his lips. Jim followed the movement raptly, caught in the glisten of moisture left on the parted mouth. Not thinking, only feeling, following his instincts, he leaned forward and licked at Blair's lower lip, tasting it, then sucking gently at it. He swallowed the gasp, and followed the next indrawn breath, opening his mouth over Blair's, delving inside. His tongue made a foray into new territory, mapping out teeth, gums, tongue, palate, much as his hands had earlier mapped Blair's skin.

It was intoxicating. Hot. Home.

Right.

Finally breaking for air, he pulled back just far enough to be able to see into his partner's eyes. There was a feral glitter in the velvet depths, pupils expanded until all that remained of irises were cobalt rims around them. He read passion, and acceptance, eagerness, and understanding. Need. He would have smiled, but his mouth was suddenly busy, as he nipped and soothed along that swollen mouth again, then over the side of his jaw, down that strong throat. The tee shirt got in the way, and it was peeled off and tossed over the back of the couch with barely a pause. In his ear, he could hear small, encouraging noises, not quite words, not needing to be. He understood with crystal clarity.

More.

Now.

_Right_ now.

He didn't quite understand the compulsion to take that was driving him on, but he had a feeling Blair might. And Blair would explain it to him later. Much later. The only thing he knew now was that he had to have his Guide, in every way he could, as far and as fast and as deep as he could.

Something niggled at him, and the very small part of his brain that was functioning above the hormonal level finally supplied him with the answer. Top. Control. Protect. Blair should be on top. Control the pace. Not the outcome, because that was decided, and neither one of them had a say in it. But even with his instincts tripping his mind back to Neanderthal level, he had to protect his Guide. So he pushed himself off Blair with a grunt, ripped off his clothes as fast as he could, yanked off the few remaining articles of clothing Blair still had on, and kicked the coffee table back out of the way.

Settling himself on the cushions in the center of the couch, he hoisted Blair up and manhandled him into position straddling his lap. He didn't think Blair was even aware of where he was at until he was already there, so caught up was he in their kiss. Strong hands settled on his shoulders, and surprised eyes stared a question down at him. He answered with his hands, stroking down Blair's back from shoulder to flank, pressing between the ass cheeks, probing inward. Blair moaned, his head falling back, and Jim drank in the sight of his partner, barely hanging on to sanity, stretched before him like a banquet.

He used Blair's ass as a handle, pulling him up until he could reach the erection straining out to him in his mouth. Blair gave a stifled scream as Jim took him in, but he didn't hear it, caught up as he was in the taste and the feel of his Guide along his tongue and under his hands. He kneaded Blair's ass in both hands as he swallowed the erection whole, no finesse, no technique, just sheer, raw hunger. Sweet as it passed over the tip of his tongue, pressed out over his teeth to protect the tender tissue. Salty as it hit the back of his throat, filling him, warming him. Assuaging a hunger he didn't know he'd had until he'd gotten his first taste.

Instinct guided his movements, and he circled Blair's opening with two fingers as he swallowed and suckled him. Blair was moaning in an irregular rhythm now, hunching forward into Jim's mouth, backward against the tormenting fingers. In very little time, the sac hitting Jim's chin drew up. Needing it, but needing it more in other ways, Jim drew back, catching a breath at the thin, reedy wail Blair gave at the loss of contact. Cupping one hand over the tip, he brought his other around and squeezed and pulled the glistening shaft. Blair's head tossed back again, as he yelped and spasmed against Jim's hands. Milking him, first firmly then more gently as the orgasm drew to completion, Jim caught Blair as he crumpled against him.

Bringing the handful of fluid back behind his partner, he worked as much of it into the clenching hole as he could, stretching and playing with the muscle the entire time. Blair was melted against him, easy to maneuver and manipulate, and it was the work of a moment to center him against Jim's own erection and ease him down onto it. Ripples of aftershock from Blair's climax were fluttering through the rings of muscle, and it felt as though he was being sucked into heaven.

Blair's knees sank deep into the cushions on either side of his hips, his head nestled into the crook of Jim's neck, his hands hanging weakly onto the rounded balls of Jim's shoulders. Jim held Blair's cheeks wide, lifting and lowering him, head back against the cushions of the couch, entire being concentrated on the tight hot joining of their bodies. Blair had roused himself a little and was whimpering encouraging, incoherent noises that sounded an awful lot like 'yes' into the side of his neck. Soon, forever and too soon, he was coming, arching up off the cushions into his partner, feeling a scream tearing out past clenched throat muscles, until he gave up any pretence of control and let the sensation tear him apart. Wave after wave of lightning struck him, and he could swear he could feel little tingling zaps of electricity sizzling between his skin and Blair's everywhere they touched. The warmth that always soothed him when he touched his partner now seared him, caught him up in a clenched fist, a ball of flame that charred him to ashes and left him reborn.

When the world reassembled around him, he felt himself slip from the confines of Blair's body, and found himself echoing the small, sad groan his partner made. Blair raised himself up, still straddling his lap, and looked down at their bodies, pressed so closely together, splattered here and there with semen and streaked with sweat.

"Does this mean what I think it means, Jim?" Blair asked quietly. Staring up into that intense stare, Jim found himself speechless. He nodded. Reached up and placed a very gentle kiss on reddened lips, and curled his arms around his partner, trying to say with touch what he couldn't get past his tight throat. A satiated sigh gusted over his shoulder, and he buried his head in soft, damp curls.

"Good thing, man. I love you too."

His arms tightened convulsively, and he rocked slightly, holding on tight. No matter what happened next, it was going to be okay. Because they were together. And they were damned well going to stay that way.

 

In a small office used for adjunct staff in the Celtic Studies program, a tall, lanky man stared out into the rain and considered going back to Paris. He'd come to Cascade because it was close to an island, where his best friend was hiding. Taking refuge, to hear Duncan say it. Hiding, as far as Methos was concerned. But since he'd arrived, he'd seen something he hadn't seen in a millennia.

A Guardian/Shaman pairing. In modern day Cascade.

This put a definite spanner in the works as far as he was concerned. The last Guardian/Shaman pairing he'd seen had been Huari, eleven hundred years before. He'd stumbled upon them trying to escape from the Tiahuanico, who'd been determined to sacrifice him to their Staff-Bearing God. Since this little ritual involved a bone knife and a severed head, he'd wanted to distance himself as far as possible from it. The woman had been pretty, and available, and he'd had no idea she was a high priest's sister. One of the few, more spectacular failures in intelligence gathering on his part. For a moment, he was back in the past, slipping into soft arms, biting at tender flesh, sinking into warmth and laughter. Then it all went to hell in a hand basket. When he was next on the sacrificial roster, he'd run as far and as fast as he could, looking over his shoulder most of the way. One hand slid up to rub at his throat, remembering.

What was now the Ayachuco Valley had seemed a good place to hide. Until a Shaman had stared at him, gone into a trance, and begun to shake. And a Guardian had done his best to take his head from his shoulders in response. It would seem that some Shamen had very bad reactions to Immortals, and Guardians reacted with protective rage. The fact that this pair happened to be Immortal themselves would, knowing Methos' luck, just make it worse.

He wondered if they knew what they were. Given the way the young Shaman had reacted to his Guardian's pain, probably. At least one aspect of themselves. He didn't believe they knew anything about being Immortal. A little research in the library had brought to light the 'miraculous' rebirth of one Blair Sandburg, doctoral candidate in Anthropology, the previous Autumn. Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one who'd heard about the Lazarus stunt.

Someone else was in Cascade. And if Methos didn't play this very carefully indeed, he could find himself babysitting a hostile Guardian, a spacey Shaman, and fending off an Immortal bent on taking baby Quickenings. It was not shaping up to be the most restful winter he'd spent. And considering how busy he'd been lately, he really needed a break.

Staring sightlessly through the window, turning options over in his mind, he heard the door open.

"Oh, Adam! I didn't know you were here. Am I intruding?" A lightly accented voice called him out of his preoccupation.

"No, Sue, just wool-gathering." The young woman before him might be a perfect way to put his newly hatched plan in motion. She was new, as well, in from Kilkenny Town by way of Harvard. She was also outgoing, curious, and had just been to several social sciences mixers he'd avoided in order to make sure he didn't accidentally run into Blair Sandburg. "So, how was the tea?"

"Oh, you should have come, Adam. It was fun, even a dour Welshman like yourself would have enjoyed it." She teased him, and he grinned back, secure in the knowledge that it was just for fun, since she had a lovely lass of her own at home. No problems with unexpected emotional attachments from this quarter. She continued as she unwrapped several layers of wool and settled behind her corner of the desk. "Lots of interesting people here, and some good native guides."

His ears pricked up and he smiled encouragingly at her, shifting his shoulders against the wall to get comfortable. "One young lad in particular will be a great deal of help. Friendly, been here for years, knows just who to go to and who to avoid, if you know what I mean." He nodded, then firmly bit his tongue to keep from crowing as she placed the key to the puzzle right in his lap. "Name of Sandburg, Blair Sandburg, fellow over in Anthro. Has connections in every department on the campus, not the least pushy but a wonderful listener, and quite helpful all told. He and Beth and I went out for coffee, and talked for three hours before he had to get back. I think he's going to be a great deal of help this semester! And such a nice man."

I'm quite sure he is, my dear, Methos grinned to himself, but contented himself with a nod and an encouraging sound. It would take a little sneakiness and a little groundwork, but he was good at both, and it shouldn't take too long.

As usual, when the old man was plotting, he was perfectly correct.

 

Ten days, three massive headaches for Jim, three bizarre spirit walks for Blair, one decapitation, two dressings-down and one very concerned inquiry from Captain Banks later, and the plan went into motion.

"I'm telling you, Jim, we have got to figure out what is causing this, and the only way we are going to do that is to get completely away, someplace quiet and remote, and go through every single thing we can until we can pin it down and get a handle on it. It's both of us, man, and it's dangerous, and it's scaring the holy shit out of me."

Ellison nodded wearily. His head was one big aching throb, and while he was barely managing not to snarl at Sandburg, the rest of the world was not nearly so lucky. Connor had nearly handed him his teeth that morning when he'd barked at her one time too often, Brown wasn't talking to him at all, and Ryf was hiding in the break room every time he came in the room. Simon wasn't going to put up with it much longer, and had told Jim that to his face that afternoon. Sandburg was right, but he didn't know what to do about it.

"There's a killer roaming around out there, Chief-"

"And we're not going to stop him if you're curled up in a ball and I'm in La La Land, man!"

Kid had a point. "So, what do you suggest?"

"Working vacation. The feds are hot to trot on the headless corpse case." Jim winced at the reminder of his less-than-stellar encounter with the local representatives of the FBI the previous morning. One more black mark arguing in favor of a break. "A friend of mine out at the U has a friend who has an island in Lake Whatcom. Totally remote, totally peaceful, totally empty, just you, me, and a bunch of trees. Lots of peace and quiet to find out what the hell is going on before it gets us both killed."

Jim stared at him. An island? In February? Practically in Canada? Sandburg must be seriously worried to actually volunteer to get that damned cold. He nodded reluctantly. "I'll ask Captain Banks."

Blair looked at him like he was nuts. "What? You think he's going to say no?"

Ignoring the probably well-justified sarcasm, he dialed up the precinct. Simon heartily endorsed the plan over the phone, heartily enough that Ellison actually felt a little put out. He didn't have time to think much of it before Sandburg started dragging every flannel shirt and pair of thermals he had out of the closet. Yeah. Cold was the word for it. He grinned, taking the stairs two at a time, refusing to look too closely at why the prospect of a couple weeks freezing his nuts off being tortured with sensory tests in the middle of nowhere by his determined Guide should make him so damned happy.

So, maybe he was nuts. He shrugged it off, and started pulling out his own flannel shirts. After all, with all that frost, it was a great excuse to share body heat.

 

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod poked another stick into the fire and stared up at the clouds. The demons were silent tonight, thankfully. Out in the quiet, with nothing to hear but his own thoughts, nowhere to run to get away from them, sometimes the voices got too loud. Richie's eyes, Tessa's quick smile. Fitz's laugh. Coltec's warm strength. Sean's soft voice. Darius' restful presence. God, Darius.

All gone, every last one of them. All stuck in his head, playing back on an endless loop. Interspersed with their memories, the flash of his katana, slick with blood along the edge. Those he hadn't actually killed he might as well have. He'd had to get away, if not for himself, then for the few friends he had left. Amanda. Joe.

Methos.

It had taken a lot of forgiveness, for there was no forgetfulness. But there was much to forgive in himself, as well, and that had eased the way immensely. That, and seeing what regrets were worth -- in his case, not much. His dream, or vision, or whatever it had been, the guided tour that Fitz had given him of what life would have been like for others without him, had eased some of the sting. But not all of it.

Not nearly enough of it.

There were days, and more especially nights, when the weight of his guilt nearly crushed the breath from his body. How anyone could murder a student … a son. How _he_ could have murdered Richie. Sean, at least, he could blame on the dark Quickening. Darius, on insane mortals. But Richie? Oh, well, yes, ancient demons, fear and madness. But the fact remained.

And the fact haunted him.

There were times when he would give his soul to ask Methos how he did it. How he balanced what he had been with what he was now. But any answer Methos gave would be a mystery to him. As much as they complimented one another, they were still alien to one another, products of their times, products of the events and the people who had shaped them.

Products of their own peculiar and particular destinies.

The buzz broke his concentration before he heard the first laps of water against the sides of the incoming canoe. His attention was torn … get his katana? Wait it out? He was on holy ground. He was vaguely surprised to realize that for the first time in months the prospect of a hostile Immortal actually stirred a defensive reaction within him. He examined the feeling, turning it over and over as the buzz came closer and the canoe touched the beach. The spark wasn't completely extinguished, it would appear. He did still want to live, after all.

The thought didn't cheer him as much as it probably should have.

That's when it hit him. This buzz was … decidedly strange. It wasn't one, but two, yet they were so closely interwoven they might as well have been one. Since his unique experience sharing Kronos' Quickening with Methos, he'd noticed an alteration in the way he perceived Quickenings. Before they'd been simply a buzz at the base of his skull, varying in intensity depending on the age and the strength of the Quickening. Now, however, he could actually hear things. He'd noticed it first with Methos, hearing the echo of young boys' laughter and the clear high notes of bells in it. With this unusual bonded Quickening, he heard other things.

Drums, thrumming lightly, an ancient rhythm with a modern cadence to it. The throaty growl of some large wild cat, punctuated by the lighter howl of a wild dog. Sparkling chimes balancing the drums, soaring over the other sounds, giving a tone of brightness and light to the whole thing. He found himself smiling even as he reached for his sword.

By the time the pair reached the edge of the trees, he was there to meet them. The older one, a tall, well muscled man who walked like a soldier, suddenly doubled over and clutched at his head. The younger one, a wild-maned lad with a beautiful mouth and fast hands, caught him, then lifted his head to stare with curiously blank eyes at MacLeod. Sighing, he held the katana in a neutral position and stepped out of the shadows to greet them.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I have no wish to fight. The Game has no place here. We are on holy ground."

The young man stared at, and through him. The soldier grimaced up at him through what appeared to be a hell of a headache, and rasped, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Duncan sighed again. Great. Not only were they intruders, with strange Quickenings and apt to go off into fits … they hadn't a clue what they were.

It had to be Methos' fault.

He sheathed his sword and gestured over his shoulder. "Come up to the fire and we can talk." Turning his back to them, he headed back to the warmth of his camp. From the rustling behind him, and the proximity of the chimes, he knew they were following.

It was going to be a very long night. And if this was Methos' fault, he'd hunt the old man down and whack him a good one. He didn't _need_ complications.

Know-it-all bastard.

 

Blair wasn't quite sure what had slipped him back into that weird dual world again, as he sensed no threat whatsoever from the stocky, dark haired guy who'd come out of the woods. Then his eyes had settled on the sword -- sword! -- in his hands, and the curtain had fallen.

Back in the woods, same ones, he recognized the trees and the stream. No wolf this time, but no bear, either. A distressed panther panted at his paws … Paws?

Well, this was turning out to be a hell of a trip.

He tore his fascinated gaze away from his own furry paws and looked up to see the same Native American stranger he'd seen the very first time it had happened. The man was smiling at him, looked happy to see him. He opened his mouth and strange words came out. He opened his own mouth to respond and no words came out at all, only a whuffling bark.

Hey. Cool. So, Sherlock, how to get past the inter-species translation problem?

Even as he thought it, the barrier disappeared and he heard the calm voice in his mind.

"Welcome, Shaman. You are safe here, as is your Guardian. You are with the Champion, He who Walks in Shadow and Light. This is your place, for now. Listen well, and learn. Trust your heart, and Guide well."

He asked what that meant, or tried to, since it came out more of an inquisitive yip. But before his muzzle closed around the sound, the panther whimpering at his paws gave him a firm, needy head-butt, and he bent down automatically to nuzzle the wrinkled forehead. When he got a closer look at what he was nuzzling he realized it was the short hair atop Jim's skull, and it was working. The pain was easing in his face.

And the second world had disappeared again.

With the lessening of the pain, Jim was rallying himself to try to protect them, challenging the stranger. In response, the man with the sword -- holy fucking shit, the guy was carrying a _sword_ \-- Blair couldn't get past that -- the man simply turned and walked back toward the glow of a campfire he could barely see through the trees. Ignoring Jim's mild grumble about 'so much for deserted' and 'one weird set-up into another' he pulled the Sentinel to his feet and took off after the stranger.

"Did you see that, Jim? He was carrying a sword!" A sigh was his only answer, but the hand in his tightened and held on, following willingly as Blair hauled him through the trees.

 

So much for a vacation. Jim had just seen what appeared to be a decent sized fire in front of a log cabin when a killer headache ripped the top of his head off again and dumped in more napalm. He was getting pretty damned tired of constantly having his brain fried. Especially when strange men showed up carrying sharp bladed instruments and his Guide went off into a trance at the drop of a hat.

Still a little off balance from the annoying buzz that was biting at the back of his neck, he gratefully accepted Sandburg's hand up, then wrapped his own hand around the kid's and held on for dear life. As that warm current flowed between them, he felt the pain bleed off, and he finally was able to relax and concentrate on their surroundings.

Other than the inhabitant of the camp and the cabin, the woods were completely devoid of human life. He quickly tagged and forgot several different varieties of birds and small woodland animals, none threatening, the splash of fish and small amphibians, and the rustle of wind going through the trees. It was idyllic, except for the man with the sword. As they broke cover into the clearing that housed the camp, he did a fast and thorough recon of the area and could find no threat anywhere, not counting the man. He grimaced to himself. That was the way it usually was -- the biggest threat was always his own kind. Hanging back a little, he let Sandburg do what he did best, talk, while Jim did what he did best -- guard his partner's back. And front, if need be.

"Hi, I'm sorry if we're intruding. I'm Blair Sandburg, and this is Jim Ellison. We were given directions and permission to come by a friend named Sue O'Connell, a professor at Rainier University."

Blair continued, smoothing the way, and Jim studied the man, who studied him right back. After an appraising stare from both of them, the man smiled slightly, and for some reason Jim began to relax. He recognized a soldier, but there was something about this guy that was off. Too calm. Too watchful. Too old for such a relatively young man. His face was early thirties, but his eyes … his eyes were just too old.

Jim brought his attention back to the conversation when the soothing voice of his partner gave way to a slight Scots burr from the stranger.

"I've a feeling your friend Sue got the map from my friend Adam. He's a teacher, too, one way or another, most of the time." Blair looked puzzled. "He sent you here for a reason. And you've not the faintest idea why, do you?"

Blair looked up at Jim. Jim shrugged. Hell, he was just along for the ride. And to make sure no strange men messed with his Guide. He looked back at the stranger. "Why?" he asked simply.

The man nodded, gesturing to a log placed by the fire. "Have a seat, this will take awhile." He waited until they'd settled, then took a deep breath. "I'm going to tell you things that will sound fantastical. I ask that you listen, ask questions if you have to, but let me tell it all before you make up your minds. I'm not exaggerating when I say your lives depend on it."

Jim shifted closer to Blair, instinctively protective. The man's dark eyes tracked the movement but made no comment. After a moment he began talking.

"My name is Duncan MacLeod. I was born in the highlands of Scotland. In 1592. I am over four hundred years old. I am an Immortal."

"No way," Jim couldn't have kept it in with duct tape over his mouth. A broad hand raised. Jim shared a skeptical glance with Blair, and was disconcerted not to see any disbelief in those big blue eyes. O-kay. He'd sit tight and listen.

Then get out the padded jacket.

To his intense surprise, the man drew a short, wickedly sharp knife from his pocket. "God, I hate this part," he muttered, and drove the point through the palm of his hand, wrenching it slightly as he pulled it out to widen the wound.

"Fuck!" Blair yelled, and bounded off the log, already scrabbling for his scarf to take it off and bind the wound. Jim was on his heels, not knowing what the nutcase would do now, if he'd turn the knife on Blair next or … MacLeod winced, swiped the blood off his hand, and showed them the results. Jim fell back on the log. Blair landed in his lap.

The palm was healing in front of their eyes. Jim focused and could see tiny bolts of electricity weaving the skin together, zapping and threading through the fibers, knitting the cells in seconds. Veins and capillaries regenerated, blood surged through and under and washed the newly healed muscles, and perfect, healthy skin spread over the wound, following the miniature lightning. It was only when he felt the worried pat of Blair's hands on his cheeks, the low, nervous voice of his Guide calling to him, that he realized he had zoned on the incredible sight.

"Yeah, Chief, I'm here," he finally muttered, and felt the relief shudder through Sandburg. His arms tightened instinctively around the solid body sprawled over his thighs. Ignoring his usual reaction to an armful of Sandburg, he asked, plaintively, "Did you see that, Chief?"

Blair nodded, eyes huge.

"Okay, now that that's over," MacLeod broke in, "Let me ask you this. Has either of you died recently?"

On the surface it was a stupid question. They were both sitting there, living, breathing. Jim looked at Blair, who looked back.

"Yeah," Blair said softly. "I did."

"Not permanently," MacLeod assured him. "Obviously," he grinned at their identical 'no shit' expressions. "When did you die, Mr. Ellison?"

Jim opened his mouth to deny any such thing, then closed his eyes and remembered. Going down, a missile to the engine, the chopper spinning out of control. No time to think, no time to do a damned thing but scream as the ground hit them. Waking up to hell, covered in blood, aching in every muscle but miraculously whole. His entire team dead or dying around him, not a fucking thing he could do to help them, injuries much too extensive to treat with his limited medic's training and almost no supplies. Caring for the last of the team over three days and nights, as they died one after another, leaving him alone to bury them. No one left. No one but him. A miracle, or a nightmare, or both.

Now, it seemed, no miracle. Just a nightmare.

His mind skipped through other times, strange reactions to medications he and Sandburg had always blamed on the Sentinel senses, accelerated healing he hadn't paid much attention to at the time, caterwampus as things always were when felt through the prism of heightened senses. He knew he was weird. He just hadn't known how much of a freak he really was.

"Peru," he whispered softly, and Blair wrapped both hands around Jim's middle and held on tight.

"What the hell is going on, man?" Sandburg asked MacLeod fiercely.

"You have begun a new phase of your life, and you need someone to teach you the rules," MacLeod returned calmly. "There are other Immortals out there. We all participate in something called, for some reason no one has ever figured out, the Game." He went on to explain the transfer of life energy, called Quickening, through decapitation of one Immortal by another, to be done over and over until only one Immortal remained alive, at which time that Immortal would receive an unknown Prize. That holy ground, any holy ground, was safe haven, that Immortals fought one to one (but some cheated), and that edged weapons were the norm, to take heads in honorable combat.

Blair began to pepper MacLeod with questions about whys and hows and whens and on and on. Jim sat there and thought. The headless corpse murders. There was an Immortal hunting in Cascade. Waiting for a pause that didn't come as MacLeod tried desperately to keep up with Blair's questions, Jim finally broke in.

"Hang on a minute, Chief. Mr. MacLeod, there's a guy running around Cascade whacking off people's heads. The crime scenes show evidence of substantial electrical discharge in the area." MacLeod was nodding. "An Immortal?"

"Yes, someone is hunting. It makes sense, now." At Blair's raised brow, MacLeod answered, "Why Adam sent you here. Some Immortals go after new Immortals, before they can defend themselves, before they know what they are, or the rules of the Game. They take the new ones' heads before they become a threat. Adam must have discovered about your being an Immortal, Mr. Sandburg, and sent you out here where you would be safe until you could train. He sent you out here so I would teach you."

Blair muttered under his breath, "Culling the herd. Effective, but pretty damned cold."

Jim took a deep breath. "How much can you teach me in two weeks?"

MacLeod stared at him. "No' nearly enough."

"It's going to have to do for now. We have a killer to catch."

MacLeod shut his eyes and took a deep breath of his own. "You're a cop." Jim nodded, then gave a verbal yes when MacLeod didn't open his eyes. "This is going to be harder than I thought."

"Why?" The guy wasn't making any sense.

"In the first place, Immortals don't give other Immortals up to the police, for a few reasons. One, it will become obvious over time when a man doesn't age, and if the authorities found out about us we'd all be stuck in government labs somewhere being tortured like lab rats."

That struck a deep seated fear in Jim, and he couldn't restrain the shudder. Blair huddled closer and held him tighter.

"Two, that would be cheating." They gave him another confused look, and he explained. "The purpose of combat is to have the best man win. If one of them gets hauled off by the cops in the middle of the fight, it just leads to more complications later." Jim could hear a load of not very well hidden frustration in that statement. Must have been personal experience, he figured. MacLeod went on, "Three, and most important, I'm not teaching just you." Blair stiffened. This time it was Jim's turn to hang on tight. "You canna protect Mr. Sandburg all the time. He must be prepared to defend himself, or spend the rest of his not inconsiderable life span on holy ground, never leaving for fear that someone would either get around you or incapacitate you, then kill him."

Jim thought bitterly of very recent times when he knew he'd not been able to protect his partner, and understood the sense in this. He wasn't sure, unfortunately, how Blair would react. From the look on his partner's face, not well.

"I don't know about it, man," Blair said softly. "I don't know if I could kill another person. It's just so totally anathema to who I am."

"I have known doctors, men of peace, even priests, Mr. Sandburg, who do not hunt, who are not active participants in the game. But they do know how to defend themselves, and they do take Quickenings when given no other choice. This is not a license to hunt down other Immortals and collect their Quickenings," MacLeod reassured him equally softly. "This is about ensuring that you will be around to live your life to its fullest extent and not allow someone else to take it from you."

"It's self defense, Chief, and god knows I fall down on the job often enough, you have to be able to look after yourself, too." Blair gave him a troubled look, and he knew it would take some convincing. "I want you here with me as long as we have, Blair," Jim whispered to him, for his partner's ears only. "Please. Do what you have to do, but don't turn away from defending yourself, don't make me lose you any sooner than I have to."

"Goes both ways, man," Blair whispered back, Sentinel-soft.

"You got it, buddy." Jim smiled for the first time since the insanity began, and Blair relaxed against him. That decision taken care of, he turned to MacLeod. "So, teach, what's first?"

MacLeod grinned wryly at them. "Sleep tonight. Fight tomorrow."

"Live to fight another day," Blair quipped, and Jim grinned. MacLeod gave him the strangest look.

"Where'd you hear that?" he asked in an oddly husky tone.

"Old saying, man, 'he who fights and runs away,' you know?" Blair grinned at him.

MacLeod shook his head as if to clear it, then gestured toward the cabin. "Come in and make yourselves comfortable. There are extra beds."

Jim felt the contented sigh even through all the layers he and Sandburg were both wearing. "Too totally cool. Not going to have to sleep on the ground after all!"

Jim shook his head in mock despair, then got a good groping handful of Blair's butt as his boosted him out of his lap. "No privacy, either, Chief." Blair froze.

"Tomorrow we break out the tent."

"No arguments from me, Sandburg."

 

The next two weeks went faster than any of the men had hoped. Jim was not to be swayed in his determination to go back to the city at the end of the 'vacation' and Blair had to agree. The formality melted away quickly under the regimen of running, stick fighting, boxing, various martial arts and gymnastics, and Mac was satisfied with the beginnings of what he saw in Blair and Jim. Jim was all contained violence, quick and deadly and strong. Blair had mercurial speed, agility and surprising strength, but his mind sometimes got in the way of his body.

Two weeks wasn't nearly long enough.

After the first night, Jim and Blair were so tired they didn't even think of setting up the tent. They simply fell into bed, wrapped around one another, and rolled out at an ungodly time of the morning to do it all again. After twelve days of this, they both felt like they were going to explode. Mac was pushing them, hard, and all that adrenaline had to come out somewhere. Late in the afternoon of the last day on the island, they slipped away to a secluded part of the woods, deep in the trees.

Mac knew precisely what they were doing, and left them to it. He had some choices to ponder, a decision to make. These two, while they were unique in his experience, were good men and had the potential to do a lot of good in the world. But not if he let them go wandering back to Cascade with their training barely begun, straight into the path of an Immortal on a hunting trip. He couldn't count on Methos to look after them, that was, after all, why the old man had sent them out here. Any more would be too much -- for some odd reason, the only other Immortal Methos put himself out for was MacLeod himself. Sitting on the edge of his bunk, staring out through the small window cut into the wall of the log cabin, he sank deeply into thought.

The first indication that something unusual was happening was a phantom hand that stroked down his torso and directly to his crotch. Mac straightened with a lurch and a gasp, staring down at his lap and the impressive erection that was growing there. He hadn't even been _thinking_ about sex. That didn't seem to matter.

A warm wash of electricity settled across his skin, diving into his muscles. He relaxed back against the blankets and gave in, helpless before the sensation. In the back of his skull, he felt the tingling buzz, faintly heard the chimes and the deep growl of the big cat. For an instant, he wondered if Methos had this same, unexpected ability to drop in on other Immortals' lovemaking, then the feelings swamped him and he stopped thinking.

Intangible fingers stroked him, ghost lips caressed him. Caresses stroked along his face, his shoulders, his chest, and he was both giver and receiver, reveling in the heat of bodies far from his own. Electricity crackled along his nerve endings, from his ankles to the small of his back, centering on his chest, along his nipples, down his torso to his cock, around his balls and over his perineum to center over his anus. Phantom fullness stretched him, and his thighs fell apart, feet digging into the mattress to arch against his invisible lovers, fingers clenching in the blanket, head falling back against the pillow. His mouth opened to invite in a roving tongue, and his body lurched under the force of others' thrusts, until he choked back a scream and came, hard, in concert with two others, unaware of his participation.

Collapsing back against the sweaty sheets, he raised a shaking hand and pushed the fall of bangs off his forehead. Well. That settled that. It was time to go back to civilization. He had to keep watch over his students until they could fend for themselves.

And he _really_ had to have a little talk with Methos.

 

For all his concern over the choices his new life would have him make, Blair found himself more relaxed and happy than he had been in years. Between the vigorous workouts, the fresh air, and the complete change in surroundings, plus spending every minute of the day and night with Jim, he was in better shape both physically and emotionally than he could ever remember being. Mentally was another issue, and one he wasn't about to face until he absolutely had to. He had a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn't be his pacifism that would be hard to face. It would be the ease with which he would defend both himself and his mate. Since hooking up with his Sentinel, he'd discovered a lot of things about himself that had jolted him out of his previous preconceptions. Something told him this would be another one of those things.

Thinking of his partner got him horny. As usual. This afternoon, though, he decided to do something about it.

"Hey, Jim, you know, man, we've been here two weeks already-"

"Don't remind me, Chief." Grumpy butt. Blair could do something about that. He grinned wickedly.

"And you haven't pounded me through the forest floor once. Where's your initiative, o Sentinel mine?" With that, he took off for the interior, one aroused Sentinel on his heels. Of course, he didn't get far. That had never been his intention.

Deeper into the trees there was a hint of warmth, trapped by the trunks, protected by the moss. Jim had him up against a nice soft wet tree in three seconds flat. Within a minute, all their clothes were clumped in a pile on the forest floor and Blair was sprawled flat on his stomach, Jim camped between his thighs, hands busy all over his back, tongue and teeth working away at his ass. He opened his mouth to scream and got a mouthful of flannel. It was a very effective gag, which as it turned out was not a bad idea. Biting into the soft material as Jim's tongue split and bathed him, he moaned low and loud.

God, but that man knew what to do with his tongue.

Hands, too.

There were times when it really paid to have a Sentinel as a love slave. This was definitely one of those times.

When Jim had determined that he was wet enough and stretched enough and tormented out of his mind enough, he finally -- _finally_ \-- lifted Blair's hips and slid in. All the way to the balls. One stroke. If he hadn't already been completely insane, that would have done it. He flexed his quads and dug his knees into their makeshift bed, pressing as hard back into Jim's lap as he could, desperate for the feeling he'd been too tired to enjoy for the last two weeks. Jim was as desperate as he was, and pounded him hard, jolting Blair back and forth against him, grunting into his ear as he leaned forward and covered him. It was precisely what Blair needed.

Strong hands ran over his sides, up his chest to play at his nipples, twisting and pinching then soothing them, before one ran up to rub at his throat, the other down to knead his balls. It was fast and deep and satisfying on a molecular level. Yelping helplessly into the soft cotton beneath his face as Jim fastened his teeth into his shoulder, Blair convulsed and came into Jim's hand, busily milking his cock. Jim thrust in as far as he could, and Blair could feel the clenching of his own muscles around Jim's cock, the added bulky stimulation exactly what he needed to fry what was left of his brain.

As he was coming down, slowly, Jim suddenly shifted, jerked back, and whipped hard against him, three, four thrusts, and pulsed deeply into him. In his hazy mind, a sudden mental image of two lightning bolts, one blue, one red, wove together and struck earth together, and the earth opened up to receive them. Around them danced a complicated knot of golden fire, close, but not touching, witnessing and sharing without intruding. Then the fire in his brain calmed to pure blessed numbness.

Barely aware, he moaned softly as Jim pulled out, turning and settling Blair against his sweaty, warm chest. He cracked one eye open to see Jim contently licking his palm, like a sleepy, satiated cat. Grinning at the image, he buried his face in the hollow of Jim's throat and let himself drift off to sleep.

 

The next morning, Jim and Blair were not surprised to see Mac joining them at the canoe, katana in a thin sheath at his side. Blair cocked his head in query, and Mac sighed.

"It's against m' genetic code to let innocents wander out to certain death."

Jim grinned at him, and Mac grinned ruefully back. Then Blair hopped in the canoe, Jim took one end and Mac the other, and they rowed back to the mainland.

As the got closer, Jim dropped his paddle in the boat and grabbed the back of his neck. Blair reached out immediately and placed his hand against the middle of Jim's chest, a grounding technique they'd discovered by accident that helped Jim dial down the buzz of a nearby Quickening. Mac reached for his sword, then tilted his head up, much like a retriever scenting the wind. Whatever he sensed reassured him, for he relaxed, carefully placed the sword back down and picked up his oar.

"Gentlemen, meet Adam Pierson." He nodded toward the shore, and they saw a tall, slender stranger in a black overcoat waiting patiently for them.

"Sue's friend?" Blair asked absently, staring at the man. A plane shift was happening, and it was rapidly taking precedence over such mundane things as making sure he got to shore without drowning. This forest was much older, stone temples in the background, a jaguar-headed man and a woman with arms wrapped in snakes flanking the man on the shore. A lion-headed warrior wielding a thunderbolt, automatically pegged by his subconscious as an Assyrian in full battle dress, towered behind him. In the wind, he could hear the laughter of a young boy. For an instant, the thin face was wild, half covered in woad, shaggy hair flying about the narrowed eyes, then it all disappeared, melting into the unassuming mask of a present day academic.

Blair wasn't fooled for an instant.

Oddly, the man was looking at him, and at Jim, very nervously. Both his hands were out of his pockets, regardless of the biting wind, in a deliberately non-threatening posture. Blair smiled up at the ancient eyes. "It's cool, man. Nobody's gonna fight anybody. All friends here, right?" He wasn't sure quite why he felt the need to reassure the other man, but he did. Apparently it was the right move. The hesitation in the golden green eyes faltered, and a slight smile curved the sculpted lips.

"Hi," he offered softly, stepping back out of the way as Mac jumped lightly out of the canoe, Jim following suit. For some reason, Jim was instinctively placing himself between Blair and the other man. Blair shrugged off the tension in his shoulders. This was an ally, he told himself. No use pissing off the ones who want to help.

"Hi, yourself, and thanks for the tip on the island," Blair responded, and the smile grew warmer. Jim seemed to react well to the calm exchange, backing off on his aggressively protective stance and dropping back to help Blair dig their bags out of the canoe. Adam nodded toward Jim's truck.

"Follow you back?" He'd brought his own car. Mac headed toward it, tossing a question to Jim over his shoulder.

"How about we meet at the loft after we return the canoe? We have some planning to do," Jim responded. Blair simply looked at Adam, then rolled his shoulders to ease the last of the tension out. Whatever would happen, would happen. He'd take it as it came, just like he always had.

It was a long and relatively silent drive back to the coast, broken only by a few soft comments, Santana and the Rembrandts coming from the tape player, and the warmth of Jim's thigh under Blair's hand. War was about to begin, whether they wanted it or not, and they would take the peace they could find wherever they could find it.

 

It hit them almost before they were expecting it. Stashing the canoe in a well-kept store house down by the docks, all four men stiffened and assumed various listening positions as the buzz hit them. Jim instinctively grabbed the nape of his neck, Blair leaned into him, one hand at the center of his chest. Mac's nose tilted up like a hunting dog, and Methos went still as a snake in the grass, only his eyes moving as he slowly pivoted in a 360 to look in all directions.

"Quite a party, isn't it?" a gravelly voice spoke from the shade of the alley behind the warehouse.

"Not quite what you were expecting?" Duncan countered smoothly, moving in front of the group. The other Immortal, a stranger to him, stepped forward. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

The stranger studied him. "My fight is not with you, MacLeod."

"These are my students," Duncan answered back forcefully. "A fight with them is a fight with me."

"So be it," the other man answered, and with a smooth movement, drew a heavy sword from the lengths of his overcoat.

"How does he do that?" Blair whispered. Methos shook his head and mouthed, "Later." Then the clash of steel against steel and the scattered sparks of electricity running along the edges of the swords as they clashed broke off all conversation. Methos drew Blair further back into the relative security of the warehouse, Blair hauling Jim along right beside him.

"There can be only one," MacLeod stated, calmly, then turned into a whirling Dervish in front of their eyes. The other Immortal was good, and had obviously been doing this for some time, but it was apparent he'd been staking out untried Immortals for too long. His edge was gone. They ranged back and forth along the course of the short alley, knocking cans in front of one another, dodging behind the dumpster, leaping out and slicing at one another. Cuts appeared along Mac's shoulder, along the stranger's torso and thigh, before Mac finally disarmed him. Falling to his knees, he bend his head, spent, panting, bleeding. Defeated. Mac looked down at him for a moment, a wealth of sadness in his eyes, and asked, quietly, "What is your name?"

The stranger glanced up at him, resignation in his face. "William Flona. Take it and be damned to you." Then the heavy head dropped forward.

With a nearly silent, "As are we all," the katana slid, then drew across the vulnerable throat. The head parted from the shoulders, and a wind picked up. Radiant energy whipped in a silky cloud from the corpse, toppling to its side, then swirled about Mac's body. It struck with vicious intent, pulse points, the tip of his sword, the top of his skull, seeking entrance, finding it at his straining opened mouth and vacantly staring eyes. His spine arched with the force of the lightning whipping through him.

Jim and Blair stared, enthralled and more than half horrified, both at the lessons of the last two weeks made manifest in the flesh and at the obvious pounding Mac was taking along with the Quickening. "Is it always like that?" It was Jim's turn to ask a quiet question, nearly lost under the shriek of the wind and the exploding light fixtures along the alley.

"Yeah, usually," Methos answered, distracted, his eyes glued to MacLeod's body. "There's a reason I'm not real active in the Game. Besides the fact I don't particularly like to fight, it hurts like bloody hell after you've been through it enough times. Of course," he mused, "Some Immortals can become junkies on it after awhile. All those endorphins, I'd guess. Leads to hunters, like this Flona chap." He tensed, then moved carefully out into the alley, coming up alongside Mac, who was draped over the corpse like a living shroud, appearing more than a little drunk. Flipping open a cell phone, Methos punched a speed dial button and spoke quickly into it, giving someone directions to the 'clean up site'. Jim looked another question.

"Later lesson," Methos assured him. "Most of us aren't messy enough to leave bodies lying around to spook the local constabulary." He grinned at Jim. Jim glared back. Methos sighed. "Anyway, it's just one of those things MacLeod will teach you." Reaching an arm around Mac's waist, he hoisted him up and half dragged, half led him over to their cars.

"Along with how you do the magic trick of making the swords disappear?" Blair asked, trailing along behind the men.

"Yeah," Methos agreed. "Lots of little secrets."

Jim stared back into the alley. "Can't wait." There was no anticipation in his voice at all.

"It takes time," Mac's raspy voice floated over to him. "Give it some time."

Jim and Blair traded glances. Time was only part of what it was going to take. Their thoughts were interrupted by Methos' disgustingly perky voice. "Your place or mine, Ellison?"

Jim sighed, unlocked the truck for Blair and tossed over his shoulder, "852 Prospect. Third floor. Meet us there." They had a lot to talk about. And he still hadn't the faintest idea what he was going to tell Simon.

 

Monday morning, back to work, much calmer, but no closer to knowing what to tell his Captain, Jim stared at the computer and mentally closed the file on the headless corpse murders. Let the feds run themselves into little ragged circles. He knew it was going to remain an open case, and he was going to do his damnedest to make sure it stayed that way. The rest of the day passed in a haze, trying to maintain a normal façade, get his work done, and adjust to yet another set of wild circumstances his life had presented him. There were days when he could swear he was living in a comic book.

Staring blankly at an open file, he came to the conclusion that he wasn't going to tell Simon about the latest little quirk in the story of his life until he was much more comfortable with it, or it became absolutely necessary. Or Blair told him to. Probably when Blair told him to. The kid had good instincts when it came to all the weird shit in their lives.

By the time they got home that night, he was in a quiet frenzy. Nothing felt quite real. Everything was a little too normal, a little too much like it had been before the shit hit the fan and he found out he was going to spend the rest of a very long life trying not to get his head lopped off by a psycho with a sword.

And making love to his Guide.

Every cloud had a silver lining.

"What's up, Jim? You off on Pluto somewhere? You've been distracted all day. Want to talk about it?" Blair sounded concerned, but Jim couldn't find the words to reassure him. Something dark and big and a little scary was growling through him, and it was knocking him off center. There was only one way to get back to peace. By the time they got the door unlocked it broke out, and he relaxed and went with it.

Turning to face Blair as soon as they got safely inside, he tossed his keys in the general direction of the table and pounced on his partner, pinning him to the door, one hand behind his head to keep him from banging it, and to enjoy the sensation of that silky hair twining around his fingers. Blair had time for one startled squeak before Jim hoisted him up against the door frame onto his tiptoes and devoured his mouth. Finally coming up for air when his partner had given up any hint of resistance and melted against him, he muttered, "Race you upstairs." And the chase was on.

By the time they made it up the stairs they were both naked, nearly taking headers down the steps tripping over trailing pants and boot laces. Jim hit the bed and turned just in time to catch an armful of Blair, straddling Jim's lap and leaving little biting kisses all over his chest and neck, up to his mouth. Lying there, arms around his partner, that soft hair falling like a curtain around his face, the warm weight of the other half of his soul bearing him down into the mattress, Jim felt like he'd come home. No matter what curveballs life would throw at him, he had an anchor, a beacon, and a reason to keep swinging right there in his arms.

Then Blair moved, and he stopped thinking. Pushing and prodding, Blair positioned him higher on the pillows, reaching behind and tugging Jim's knees up as a back support. Stretching up to clench his fists around the railing on either side of Jim's head, he raised himself up to his knees, then settled down onto Jim's erection, surprising a shout out of Jim.

"When … did you do that?" he gasped, and Blair grinned wickedly at him.

"Break … about fifteen minutes …" he paused to catch his breath, then sank all the way down onto Jim, tossing his head back and moaning deliciously. "…before we came home."

"Thank god," Jim managed, then lost his voice along with his mind as Blair tensed, rising and falling over him, riding him into oblivion. His hands wandered by instinct down to the source of heat prodding him in the belly with each down-stroke, and he pulled and soothed, rubbed and circled, faster, firmer, in time with Blair's movements. After a deliriously long time that went by much too quickly, Blair arched with a silent scream. Jim caught him as he came, the convulsions around his erection pulling him to flashpoint as well.

He noticed, peripherally, that the lightning was there, as it always was when they came together, zipping through the sweat and semen along their bodies and singing through his blood. When their heartbeats finally began to come down, he pulled Blair forward just enough to lock their mouths together and kissed his Guide as if his life depended on it.

Perhaps it did.

Perhaps it always would.

 

Nine days later, Duncan MacLeod stared around the first floor of his newest acquisition. After Charlie had died, he didn't think he'd ever open another dojo. But he found, now that he'd been drawn back into life, that he couldn't walk away from the responsibility Methos had thrown in his lap. He had not one, but two new students depending on him. It was going to be a challenge, but one he had to meet. As he'd half-jokingly told them on the island, something inside him refused to let him walk away and leave lambs staked out for slaughter.

Besides, Methos and Blair were getting along like a house a-fire, and as long as the old man stayed around, life would never be boring.

A buzz tingled in his ears, the sound of boyish laughter, and he smiled, turning to meet the object of his thoughts. "Speak of the devil," he teased. Methos gave him a disgusted look.

"Do you see any horns?" he asked, hands working at his coat.

"Not yet," Mac grinned, then brought the katana up in a challenge. "We need to have a little talk, my very old, and very sneaky, friend."

Methos gave him a cautious look, draped his coat over a handy peg, and took out his broadsword, meeting MacLeod's challenge. As the began to spar, he asked, "What is it this time, MacLeod?"

"Oh, just the matter of a couple of raw recruits coming out to my little retreat, all unknowing, to find themselves a teacher." The sword edges rang together, as master met master, parrying and retreating, falling back then surging forward in a fluidly beautiful dance.

"I freely admit it, MacLeod. I couldn't just let such a rare and unusual pair walk blithely into the nearest naked sword, now, could I?" He rolled, coming up just inside Mac's guard and opening a wicked slice along his ribs. Mac grunted and twisted away, neatly knocking the broadsword back and parrying with a stroke that nearly took Methos' arm from his shoulder. They grinned at one another, took a deep breath, and dove in again.

"Besides," Methos continued, coming in for close work, face to face with Mac now and fighting hard. "It was time for you to come out and join real life again."

Mac pushed him away, then turned into a move that locked their hilts together between their bodies. "Why?"

Methos smiled that imponderable, damned irritating smile at him, reached across their tangled blades, and kissed him. Full, open, deep and wet.

Mac nearly fell over, probably would have if not for the sheer physical arousal shooting through his legs rooting him to the ground and the firm grip he and Methos had on one another's swords. When the old man finally let him breathe again, he opened his mouth, to repeat the question, as if it needed any clarification after a kiss that curled every hair on his body. Before he could make his tongue work well enough to form the word, he stiffened.

Oh, shit. They were at it again.

His skin tingled, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead, fingertips tingling. Looking over at Methos, he saw the deep hazel eyes lose their focus and darken. He couldn't help it, and the laughter started to roll out. Methos looked at him, puzzled. He pushed his erection strongly into Methos' own firm flesh, and was rewarded with an interested push back.

"So, Methos," he asked with true curiosity, "how long have you been a voyeur?"

Methos took a deep breath, a second look, then a third, and broke into a grin. Laying his sword aside, reaching for Mac's katana and doing the same, he brought Mac close, and took a kiss from that tempting mouth. "Centuries, Highlander. Simply centuries."

_ fin _


End file.
